


the next time you want me

by unrequited_heartbreak



Series: sav's dreamsmp drabbles [6]
Category: DreamSMP
Genre: Alexis | Quackity-centric, Angst, Character Study, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Mentioned Toby Smith | Tubbo, Post-Manberg Festival on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), i know that has a real tag now but quangst just has a certain passion to it, quangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:08:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29849592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unrequited_heartbreak/pseuds/unrequited_heartbreak
Summary: “You look shitty. Who cut your hair?”“I did,” Quackity answers, feeling near giddy. He can breathe easier in this tent of a jacket. Being undesirable has never been more desirable, he thinks.//or, moon song by phoebe bridgers makes me feel things
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Jschlatt, Alexis| Quackity & Toby Smith | Tubbo, No Romantic Relationship(s)
Series: sav's dreamsmp drabbles [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2047190
Comments: 9
Kudos: 68





	the next time you want me

**Author's Note:**

> i've been in a writing mood lately so woo another post! similarly short to my last, but you know how it is—it feels good to post more often so i will! mind the tags on this one folks
> 
> hope you enjoy :)

It only takes a few minutes.

Quackity supposes that this makes sense—he doesn’t care about consistency, doesn’t care about aesthetics, and without those factors a haircut is just a few snips. There are tufts of black hair in the sink. He grins. His reflection, exhausted and misshapen, smiles back.

His shoulders feel about a million times lighter as he changes out of his close-fitting suit jacket and into one of Schlatt’s spares. It’s baggy and unappealing. It’s perfect.

Quackity cleans up as fast as he can, puts the scissors back in their drawer, reties his tie. His teeth are unbrushed. He feels like a parrot who has stress-picked all of its feathers.

Schlatt looks him up and down when Quackity enters his office, gaze unreadable.

“You look shitty. Who cut your hair?”

“I did,” Quackity answers, feeling near giddy. He can breathe easier in this tent of a jacket. Being undesirable has never been more desirable, he thinks. 

Schlatt shakes his head and turns back to his work, laughing once, sharp, disbelieving.

“It’s a shame, y’know, your hair was nice before.”

“I know,” Quackity shifts his weight to his other foot and fumbles the loose button on his jacket between his fingers, “It’s easier to take care of this way.”

Schlatt hums. “No more nasty conditioner, then? That was always a pain in the ass. Smelled like shit and wasn’t even cheap.”

Quackity’s heart jumps for a second, shame welling in the cracks of his very being and threatening to spill out in the form of a  _ Sorry, sir _ . He pushes that away, it’s fine, he’s not there to smile and wave anymore and that’s what he wanted. He can have a purpose other than being pretty, and he can just use shampoo, and he definitely won’t miss that strawberry conditioner. 

It’s fucking stupid. Was that tiny price really that frustrating? Was Quackity not even worth that much? Did Schlatt say that just to upset him? Knowing him, probably.

But it doesn’t matter, his eyes are sunken and his wrists are thin and his ribs fill with watered down coffee every morning and that’s the best little victory he can muster right now, that’s his choice and his business. Who cares about Schlatt's opinions. 

“Yeah, no more conditioner. I need new suit jackets though, mine—they don’t fit anymore. I tried my best but I had to use your old ones.”

“Sure, whatever, add it to the list.”

There’s a pause. A million words are humming under Quackity’s tongue; “What am I doing wrong?” and “Did you ever want me for anything other than power?” and “I’ve had a headache for the past three months,” and “Do you know that I’ve had nightmares about you?”

Instead of voicing them, he says, “Alright.”

Schlatt doesn’t even look up, and Quackity’s gut festers red and angry.

He wanders back to his room, fingers trailing across unmarked walls like a kid stumbling through clothing racks at a department store. His shoes squeak on the linoleum. Maybe he really is that kid, parents lost with nowhere near enough courage to ask an employee for help. Except he’s the employee, too, and there’s nobody who can help him but himself. Nobody who wants to try, even. He’s dug his own grave.

The floor of his room is bare, save for a few pairs of dress shoes tucked into a corner and an empty laundry basket. His desk is covered in papers, some neatly stacked, some creeping out of their organized places just to spite him. The air still smells like a shitty cut pine air freshener, like a brand new hotel room, despite his months of living in it. 

His sheets are soft and cool to the touch when he leans back on them—they need to be washed. The building is too new for cracks or stains to have formed on the ceiling yet. It feels horribly lonely. Lots of things feel horribly lonely in the White House. Every day feels like punishment for pooling those fucking votes. 

It’s like a cousin’s house you’ve stayed at a bit too long, the type of place where you don’t mean to unpack but once you go to leave you notice all your belongings have been strewn about in weird places. The type of place where the silverware fits weirdly in your hands and you avoid using the bathroom for fear of empty hallways and closed office doors.

Schlatt’s reclusive presence doesn’t help, either. When he’s around he’s mostly silent and busy, drunk, or pissed off about something, and it beats in the idea that they’re just not meant to  _ be _ here. Schlatt’s horns get caught on door frames. Quackity’s wings barely fit in the shower. 

Tubbo’s—Tubbo’s things are still untouched in his room. He hasn’t died, but he might as well have, for how they avoid him in conversation. It’s been a few weeks since the festival. Tommy’s with him now, he should be doing okay. He should be happier now with his friends, right? Even if not, there’s a silver lining to his disappearance. Poor kid doesn’t get any of Schlatt’s intoxicated rages anymore.

Hm. Tubbo’s birthday is in December, right? They’re three years apart. Quackity frowns up at his ceiling, twists his blanket absentmindedly with trembling fingers. He seems so much older than Tubbo though, doesn’t he? Doesn’t he? 

They’re not too different in height, or in weight, probably; they still have that last bit of childishness clinging to their faces. The more Quackity thinks about it, the more it seems like their differences are nearly all internal. Well. That’s a little terrifying.

What happens when Tubbo gets an old, guarded, cautious look in his eyes? What happens when he’s 17, 18? Quackity just prays wherever he ends up, it won’t be something like this shithole. 

He prays Tubbo won’t stay up until 4 AM most nights because the amount of coffee he drinks doesn’t let him sleep earlier. He prays Tubbo won’t keep a tube of concealer next to his tube of toothpaste. He prays Tubbo won’t stare at a pack of cigarettes just a touch too long and think maybe, maybe. He might be projecting, but hey, he never thought he’d be here now, so who knows. 

Who knows. Quackity certainly doesn’t. The longer he stays here, on the DreamSMP, in Manburg, the more that feels true. If he had known, he wouldn’t have ended up being—being mistreated, right? He can be stupid, but not  _ that _ stupid. He wouldn’t hold hands that would hit him later. 

He wouldn’t.

But, for a moment, he thinks about the proud way he had grinned when Schlatt had bumped shoulders with him and laughed proudly after they won the election. He thinks about knocking on Schlatt’s door in the middle of the night after a nightmare and nearly crying in relief when he grumbles and lets Quackity in.

He thinks about slamming his own door shut and locking it as quickly as he can, gasping for breath, listening to Schlatt’s yelling from outside, heart hammering along with the beat of the doorknob shaking wildly. About shattered glass, and neosporin, and glasses with ice that clinks together. 

When he looks down, his hands are shaking where they rest on his chest. His bed is still unmade and there’s paperwork to do. Maybe that’s enough thinking for today.

**Author's Note:**

> "But now I am dreaming  
> And you're singing at my birthday  
> And I've never seen you smiling so big  
> It's nautical themed  
> And there's something I'm supposed to say  
> But can't for the life of me  
> Remember what it is"
> 
> look at this . its so dsmp quackity and schlatt isnt it. go listen to moon song rn


End file.
